Saumya Dwivedi – Borderless

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

‘Moment’ by Margaret Atwood

With an unmanned mission reaching the moon — that moon that was chipped off the Earth’s surface when Theia bashed into the newly evolving planet — many feel mankind is en route to finding alternate biomes and perhaps, a solution to its housing needs. Will we also call moon our ‘Homeland’ and plant flags on it as we do on Earth? Does the Earth — or the moon — really belong to our species. Do we have proprietary rights on these because of lines drawn by powerbrokers who say that the land belongs to them?

These are questions Margaret Atwood addresses in her writings which often fall into a genre called cli-fi. This is gaining in popularity as climate has become uncertain now with changes that are wringing fear in our hearts. Not all fear it. Some refuse to acknowledge it. While this is not a phenomenon that is fully understood by all of us, it’s impact is being experienced by majority of the world — harsh stormy weather, typhoons, warmer temperatures which scorch life and rising water levels that will eventually swallow lands that some regard as their homeland. Despite all these prognostications, wars continue to pollute the air as much as do human practices, including conflicts using weapons. Did ‘climbing a hill’ and ‘planting the flag’ as Atwood suggests, ever give us the rights over land, nature or climate? Do we have a right to pollute it with our lifestyle, trade or wars — all three being human constructs?

In a recent essay, Tom Engelhardt, a writer and an editor, contended, “Vladimir Putin’s greatest crime wasn’t simply against the Ukrainians, but against humanity. It was another way to ensure that the global war of terror would grow fiercer and that the Lahainas of the future would burn more intensely.” And that is true of any war… Chemical and biological weapons impacted the environment in Europe and parts of Afghanistan. Atom bombs polluted not only the cities they were dropped in, but they also wreaked such havoc so that the second generation’s well-being continues impacted by events that took place more than seven decades ago. Yet another nuclear war would destroy the Earth, our planet that is already reeling under the impact of human-induced climate change. Flooding, forest fires and global warming are just the first indications that tell us not only do we need to adapt to living in changed times but also, we need to change our lifestyles, perhaps even turn pacifist to survive in a world evolving into an altered one.

This month some of our content showcase how to survive despite changes in norms. Suggesting how to retain our flora in a warming world is a book, Roses in the Fire of Spring: Better Roses for a Warming World and Other Garden Adventures, by M.S. Viraraghavanand Girija Viraraghavan, the grandson-in-law and granddaughter of the second President of India, Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan (1888-1975). They have been in conversation with Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri to explain how they have adapted plants to create hybrids that survive changing climes. Would it be wishful to think that we can find solutions for our own survival as was done for the flora?

Critiquing the darker trends in our species which leads to disasters is a book by an eminent Singaporean writer, Isa Kamari, called Maladies of the Soul. He too looks for panacea in a world where the basic needs of humans have been satiated and they have moved on towards overindulgence that can lead to redundancy. In a conversation, he tells us how he hopes his writings can help towards making a more hopeful future.

This hope is echoed in the palliative poems of Sanket Mhatre from his book, A City full of Sirens, excerpted and reviewed by Basudhara Roy. Bhaskar Parichha’s review of Samragngi Roy’s The Wizard of Festival Lighting: The Incredible Story of Srid, is a tribute also from a granddaughter to her grandfather celebrating human achievements. Somdatta Mandal’s discussion of fiction based on history, Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadh by Malathi Ramachandran not only reflects the tenacity of a woman’s courage but also explores the historicity of the events. Exploring bits of history and the past with a soupcon of humour is our book excerpt from Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay [1]), translated from Bengali by Nazes Afroz. Though the narrative of the translation is set about ninety years ago, a little after the times of Hazrat Mahal (1820 –1879), the excerpt is an brilliant introduction to the persona of Tagore’s student, Syed Mujtaba Ali (1904-1974), by a translator who describes him almost with the maestro’s unique style. Perhaps, Afroz’s writing bears these traces as he had earlier translated a legendary work by the same writer, In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan. Afroz starts with a startling question: “What will you call someone who puts down his profession as ‘quitting job regularly’ while applying for his passport?”

Other than a semi-humorous take on Mujtaba Ali, we have Rhys Hughes writing poetry in a funny vein and Santosh Bakaya giving us verses that makes us laugh. Michael Burch brings in strands of climate change with his poems as Jared Carter weaves in nature as we know it. George Freek reflects on autumn. We have more poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Pramod Rastogi, Peter Devonald, Afshan Aqil, Hela Tekali and many more, adding to the variety of colours that enhance the vivacity of conversations that run through the journal. Adding more vibrancy to this assortment, we have fiction by Paul Mirabile, Saranyan BV and Prakriti Bandhan.

In non-fiction, we have Devraj Singh Kalsi’s funny retelling of his adventures with a barber while Hughes‘ essay on the hugely popular Tintin makes us smile. The patriarchal past is reflected in an essay by G Venkatesh, whereas Suzanne Kamata from Japan talks of women attempting to move out of invisibility. Meredith Stephens and Candice Louisa Daquin both carry on the conversation on climate change. Stephens explores the impact of Californian forest fires with photographs and first-hand narrative. Vela Noble draws solace and strength from nature in Kangaroo Island and shares a beautiful painting with us. Madhulika Vajjhala and Saumya Dwivedi discuss concepts of home.

Two touching tributes along with a poem to recently deceased poet, Jayanta Mahapatra, add to the richness of our oeuvre. Dikshya Samantrai, a researcher on the poet, has bid a touching adieu to him stating, “his legacy will continue to inspire and resonate and Jayanta Mahapatra’s name will forever remain etched in the annals of literature, a testament to the enduring power of the poet’s voice.”

Our translations this time reflect a diverse collection of mainly poetry with one short story by Telugu writer, Ammina Srinivasaraju, translated by Johny Takkedasila. Professor Fakrul Alam has introduced us to an upcoming voice in Bengali poetry, Quazi Johirul Islam. Ihlwha Choi has translated his own poetry from Korean and brought to us a fragment of his own culture. Fazal Baloch has familiarised us with a Balochi ballad based on a love story that is well known in his region, Kiyya and Sadu. Our Tagore translation has attempted to bring to you the poet’s description of early autumn or Sharat in Bengal, a season that starts in September. Sohana Manzoor has painted the scene depicted by Tagore for all of us to visualise. Huge thanks to her for her wonderful artwork, which invariably livens our journal.

Profound thanks to the whole team at Borderless for their support and especially to Hughes and Parichha for helping us source wonderful writings… some of which have not been mentioned here. Pause by our content’s page to savour all of it. And we remain forever beholden to our wonderful contributors without who the journal would not exist and our loyal readers who make our existence relevant. Thank you all.

Wish you all a wonderful month.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Translated literally, it means Water & Land

Visit the September edition’s content page by clicking here

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A Homecoming Like No Other

By Saumya Dwivedi

The prawn curry was getting cold. “What’s taking you guys this long to finish a match point?” I demanded while dipping my index finger in the curry bowl and touching it to my tongue. “We never got to the end, Nina. Siddh fell on the grass and couldn’t get up after. He’s in immense pain. We’re going to have a long night,” Arko said.

The line clicked, but I stood there holding the telephone.

Little did we know then that Siddh would not be able to stand on his feet that evening and every evening until after two months.

Only last week, my favourite trio – brother Siddh, his wife, Saanvi, and their toddler, Uma, had arrived in India for a grand family reunion. This week the fun was planned at my home. After spending a day indoors, we slid into our sneakers for a walk in the park. The toddler at the swing, sisters-in-law chewing the fat, the boys at a badminton rally – the season of life we were all waiting for was finally here.

The twilight hours chimed in with the chirping of crickets. My niece asked me while rubbing her eyes, “What time do crickets go to bed?” “Not until morning. Crickets are night creatures,” I said. “Let’s sing a lullaby to crickets so they hit the bed on time,” Uma urged. Saanvi and I decided to walk back home, so the only person who went to bed on time was Uma.

The boys stayed on…

This park has an endearing presence in my life—an all-weather friend, where I end up on my good days and bad days. Just a stone’s throw away from where I live, the road to the house of this picturesque friend is never too long.

When I learned that Siddh had broken his leg in the lap of this green landscape…in the lap of my trusted friend, I felt thoroughly betrayed. No one had told me the road to the house of a friend could be bumpy too!

It took a village to lift my brother and settle him into a wheelchair. One emergency room, two hospitals, and three X-rays later, Siddh came home post-midnight…leaning on a walking frame, trembling in pain, falling apart.

The house went dead and silent, broken frequently by Siddh’s grunts and groans. Hiding behind the door tugging at a curtain, I anguished over what was tougher – to be afflicted by pain or watch someone you love suffer in pain.

The misery continued the following day – dialling up ambulances, moving between stretchers, painstakingly slow MRIs, mammoth injections, multiple doctor consultations, and whatnot. Reports said Siddh had suffered both a fracture and a ligament tear resulting in a full leg cast for six weeks!

The season of life we were all waiting for had gone awry. If there were a list of the ‘biggest holiday failures’, this would feature right at the top. Siddh seemed crestfallen – six weeks of staying in bed! Saanvi had a bewildered look on her face. Uma showed a big heart in saying she could wait until the next day for her Papa’s leg to get better so they could play chase. The dispirited Mom, Dad, and cousins drifted in different directions to make arrangements. Arko and I looked at each other and then looked around – we had gone from two to five to nine folks in a span of three days. Suddenly, my mind went elsewhere, “When was the last time we got together as one big family, with three generations living under one roof? When was the last time we sat face-to-face, speaking for hours, without a virtual screen orchestrating our conversations?”

I insisted that the trio stay with us during the recovery period. While no amount of caregiving could alleviate Siddh’s pain during the initial stage, nestling in a place of warmth and care helped him get through one day at a time. When he showed indomitable resilience in not just returning to working remotely only a few days after the accident but also stepping out on a whim while still using a walking aid, it only reaffirmed my belief that families do have the placebo effect.

Making lemonade out of lemons life had thrown at us, we often brought the house down with game nights, barbecue, drinks, karaoke, good music, and all that. On his birthday evening, when Siddh entered the living area, clacking his walker against the floor, shielding his discomfort with a grin, the message on the birthday cake sent him and everyone else into peals of laughter – Happiness is NOT playing badminton. The icing on the cake exhibited a passionate boy in the act of hitting a shuttle with a badminton racquet, wearing a replica of the red tee Siddh had worn on the evening he fell. Tongue-in-cheek, but everything is fair in love and life.

From sharing homes and hearts to strengthening family bonds, it only felt like this page in the book of our lives was written in stars.

Days and weeks rolled by. The long leg cast came off. The season of life began anew.

Siddh and Saanvi posted a handwritten note from London, “Years ago, anthropologist Margaret Mead was asked by a student what she considered to be the first sign of civilisation in a culture.

“Mead said that the first sign of civilisation in an ancient culture was a femur (thighbone) that had been broken and then healed. Mead explained that in the animal kingdom, if you break your leg, you die. You cannot run from danger, get to the river for a drink or hunt for food. You are meat for prowling beasts. No animal survives a broken leg long enough for the bone to heal.

“A broken femur that has healed is evidence that someone has taken time to stay with the one who fell, has bound up the wound, has carried the person to safety and has tended the person through recovery. Helping someone else through difficulty is where civilisation starts, Mead said.”

I cast my mind back to the evening we saw them off at the airport. A strange sense of accomplishment filled me – Siddh back on his feet, Saanvi’s beaming face, and Uma settled in my arms, making a toddler promise to visit Nina’s home in India ‘next week’.

Storing the sweet note of love in my memory box, I thought to myself, “There’s nothing more fulfilling than being there for your family in a difficult time. We are at our best when we lift each other up.”

Saumya Dwivedi often pens down anecdotes about her life. Her story ‘To the deep end’ has been published in a morning English daily. Passionate about skydiving, she keeps the spirit of flying alive in whatever she does.

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